


The Politics of Food

by junko



Series: Senbonzakura's Song [20]
Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junko/pseuds/junko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renji discovers he's slightly older than Byakuya.  It's all amusing until the young heir wonders how that could be possible....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Politics of Food

After Renji’s outburst there was a moment of silence, and then aunt Masama said, “Younger perhaps, but certainly more mature.”

Byakuya, meanwhile, seemed to struggle with a question he didn’t know how to ask. 

Renji figured he had a guess what it might be, so he tried, “You wondering how I know, right? It’s not like anyone marked down the auspicious day I came into the world.” Renji let out a little self-deprecating chuckle. He’d meant it to come out light, but Rukia patted his knee sympathetically. “But, they kind of did. The year was on the chit along with the month and the day.”

“Chit?” Byakuya asked. 

Renji glanced at Rukia who frowned, as though trying to recall what he was talking about. She knew her “birth” day, too, so some part of Rukia’s subconscious must have registered the event. Plus, Renji knew she’d explained what happened to souls on their way to the Soul Society to Ichigo. Her memory of the other details was clearly hazy, however. 

That seemed typical. Renji’d asked a lot of guys in the Eleventh what they remembered about crossing over and it wasn’t much. Then, he’d asked, ‘so how come you have a birthday?’ and they’d looked at him like he was stupid and just said, ‘because everyone does.’ Even the captain, whose trip from the other side had been so traumatic and violent that he couldn’t fucking remember his own name, had a date he’d clung to.

“They give you this thing,” Renji said, making a circle with his thumb and his pointer finger to show how round and big it was. “It had the year in the center and the month and the day around the edges. On the back was printed the name of your assigned district.”

Renji’d held on to his for days, staring at it, certain there’d been a mistake, hoping to find someone in charge to complain to, anyone to trade it with, but it became clear pretty quickly that he was stuck in Inuzuri for good. Once he’d made a kind of uneasy peace with the idea, Renji’d taken that chit and thrown it into the nearest well and prayed that whatever cruel god of destiny lived in the murky water at the bottom choked on it. It had been Renji’s first ‘fuck you’ to fate.

Renji realized everyone around the table was still looking at him to continue. Blinking away the memories, he slurped a mouthful of custard and added, “That was two hundred and seventy-five years ago as of last August 31st.”

“The difference isn’t so great,” Byakuya mused quietly.

To hear Byakuya say it like that almost made Renji snort custard up his nose. 

“You look so much younger than Kuchiki-sama,” the heir, Shinobu, said. 

Renji thought about how to answer that, and, scraping the edges of the bowl for the last of the custard, said, “Well, I’ve only been this size about seventy years, if that. I’m guessing the captain grew-up at a more natural-like pace, what with all this food around every day.”

As soon as it came out of his mouth, Renji realized his mistake. Sitting in the heart of the Kuchiki mansion was not the smartest place to bring up the politics of food and haves and have-nots. 

The heir’s brows started to crumble as he tried to figure out what Renji meant with his off-handed comment. 

Aunt Masama looked ticked off—well, as angry as any Kuchiki ever did, which was to say that her mouth formed a very thin line and her eyes held a dark fire, as though trying to burn a hole in Renji’s soul.

Rukia’s eyes cast around as if trying to come up with a suitable distraction. “Yes, the custard was lovely,” she said quickly, as if in answer to a question Renji had never asked. “I wonder what wonderful thing will be served next.”

Byakuya’s expression was thoughtful. The way Byakuya kept shooting little glances at Shinobu made Renji wonder what would happen if the heir to the vast Kuchiki fortune knew that the Rukongai was very different from the happy little lie they were told, where no one outside of the Seireitei felt the pain of hunger? 

Meanwhile, Rukia’s diversionary question was answered by servants bearing several large platters of smoked monkfish slathered in some kind of slightly fruity smelling sauce. Everyone stared at the bounty for a while, sort of awkwardly. After doing a little mental calculation, Renji reached for the serving chopsticks only to collide hands with Rukia, who was doing the same thing. 

“Oi, give over. You’re a Kuchiki,” Renji told her quietly, while making a swipe for the chopstick Rukia’d managed to grab.

“You’re a lieutenant,” Rukia shot back trying to angle for the one he’d gotten.

“Give it to the commoner,” Aunt Masama snippily hissed through clenched teeth. “No Kuchiki should argue over who ranks lowest!”

If Rukia hadn’t flinched, Renji would have said ‘I told you so.’ But, Masama’s comment had brought a blush of shame to Rukia’s face, and she meekly handed over the other serving chopstick. Renji took it with a glare at Masama. He really, really wanted to tell her what-for, but he took his revenge by serving Byakuya first, then Rukia, and then the not-yet-official heir. He put fish on Masama’s plate only just before his own. 

Along with his first bite of fish, Byakuya seemed to be trying to swallow a smile of approval. 

Rukia looked sort of astonished, but, really, Renji had no idea why she should be giving him such grateful eyes. She was Byakuya’s sister, after all, and maybe Masama was right about one thing: maybe Rukia _should_ be more aware of her place—which, the way Renji had it figured, was one step down from the top.

They ate their fish in silence. 

Shinobu, bless his soul, was the only one of them who seemed unused to icy Kuchiki silence. His eyes flicked warily among them. His mouth opened and closed as he seemed to try out things to say and then discarded them.

Dessert finally came—another tiny, artful portion. 

“Did you hear, Renji?” Rukia asked, braving the silence, “The Women’s Association has started planning the First Annual Soccer Tournament again.”

“Oh, hey, that’s good news,” Renji agreed. “Maybe I still have time to get a team together.” He still wished it were futsal, but the game just wasn’t as popular as Renji wished it were.

“Absolutely,” she smiled. “Matsumoto already recruited me.”

Renji snorted, “I suppose you get Captain Hitsugaya, too?” Rukia’s smug look was answer enough. “Great,” Renji grimaced. “Might as well get the trophies pre-printed with your team’s name on it.”

“We haven’t come up with a name yet,” Rukia admitted. She gave Byakuya a shy smile. “I was sort of hoping we could have Seaweed Ambassador as a mascot.”

“Absolutely,” Byakuya said, just as Aunt Masama said, “What? That old thing?”

Renji and Rukia looked to Byakuya. Renji always figured there had to be a story there, but he was surprised to hear it was something Aunt Masama knew about.

Byakuya’s face was tight, unhappy. Just when Renji thought maybe conversation had mysteriously died again, Byakuya explained, “Seaweed Ambassador was the hero of the bedtime stories my father told me.”

“And the hero of the stories your grandfather told your father and me,” Aunt Masama said with a look that was almost… no, Renji couldn’t imagine ‘loving,’ maybe nostalgic? 

“I had no idea the Seaweed Ambassador was a tradition,” Rukia said.

Byakuya looked briefly at the heir and nodded, “Yes. Perhaps even one that might live on.”

#

After dinner Byakuya was required to stay and mingle with his relatives. 

For Renji, it was like the Hanami in miniature. He stood just behind Byakuya, enough of a distance away that he could be attentive without being intrusive. Rukia and the young heir stood on either side of Byakuya, making small talk and whatever all they did at functions like these. Aunt Masama made her own rounds. Renji noticed her making a lot of proud gestures in the direction of Shinobu; she must be talking up her role in all this heir business. 

Renji would be jealous of not being on Byakuya’s arm if he really gave much of a fuck about the weather they’d been having in some far out Kuchiki holding or the health of various silkworms. He bowed when gestured at, but otherwise he was content to hang back in that nebulous space between servant and Kuchiki. Admittedly, he’d be far more comfortable in uniform, but Eishirō must have seen him being uncertain what to do with his hands because all of a sudden a servant was there, pressing a chilled bowl of dessert sake into them. 

Keeping one eye on Byakuya’s procession around the room, Renji admired the fusuma panels. If he had any money or space for something like this, this was the kind of stuff he’d want. He enjoyed finding the snake hidden in the tall reeds and the turtles sunning themselves on rocks. Someone had even taken the time to paint in water bugs and the shadow of fish in the pond where the snow crane fished. Renji could almost imagine a little Byakuya being shown the pictures and someone, maybe his mother, identifying all the plants and animals for him. 

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize your family’s crest, young sir,” an older man said, coming up to take Renji’s elbow for support. Even bent with age, he was obviously Kuchiki with long, straight hair that had gone white, though still streaked with black here and there. “Are we cousins by marriage perhaps?”

“No, sir,” Renji said. “No relation. I’m the lieutenant of the Sixth.”

“It’s some kind of demon, is it not? Are you a Kyōraku perhaps? Or Shihoin?”

“Uh…” this was getting awkward. “Nothing like that, sir.”

“One of the Ukitakes all grown up?” He tapped a finger against his lip, “No, no, I’m sure I’d recognize their kamon.” 

Please stop. Renji tried to will the old man to give up. At any rate, the longer Renji talked the quicker his accent was going to give him away. So, he just shook his head. 

The movement must have flicked Renji’s hair out of his face just the wrong way and exposed a tattoo or two because the old Kuchiki’s eyes widened and his hand slipped from the crook of Renji’s arm. “Where did you say you were from?”

“The Sixth Division, sir,” Renji repeated. “I’m the lieutenant.”

This made the frown that had started on the old man’s face deepen significantly. “And you’re not related to us?” His eyes strayed to where the heir followed Byakuya. “Still, I suppose someone must hold the position until it can be properly filled.”

Despite himself, Renji growled. But, it was either that, or telling this old fart that the thing that was about to be ‘properly filled’ was his face, with Renji’s fist.

“Why are you bothering with this cretin?” Aunt Masama shrilled, coming over to take the old man’s arm, as though to haul him away from the clutches of a dangerous beast.

“Making conversation,” the old guy said, somewhat startled by Masama’s reaction. “I didn’t recognize the kamon on this gentleman’s kimono.”

“The what?” Aunt Masama put a hand on Renji’s arm and wrenched him around. It took him by surprise and so, despite his size advantage, Renji found himself expertly spun. The sake bowl slipped from his hand and hit the wall with a crash. The conversation in the room hushed at the sound of shattering porcelain. Every head turned in time to hear Masama’s fury: “By everything holy, what kind of horrible mockery is this? A gentleman! How dare a lowly Inuzuri cur like you sport a kamon! Bad enough you insinuate yourself into a noble bed, now you think your whoring allows you to pass as one of us? Take that off this instant or I swear I will have the servants strip you!”

Wrenching out of Masama’s claw-like grip, Renji turned himself back around. Straightening up to his full height, he glowered down at Masama. “Lady, I’d like to see ‘em fucking try.”

She cowered. It was weird, honestly. Renji wasn’t expecting to see her tremble and gasp. Weakly, she whimpered. “Oh! Byakuya, please! Control your man.”

“Renji, stand down.” Byakuya’s voice was sharp with command.

What? Stand down? The fuck? He had no weapon out. 

Even so, Renji did as he was told. He opened his palms to show surrender and took two steps back. Dropped his head, his gaze lowered to snarl at the floor. Heat flushed his face when he realized what she’d done. 

_She’d fucking played him._

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will be posted simultaneously so don’t kill me.
> 
>  **Note on ages**. Since a number of people have brought it up, I’m going to be adding a hundred years to everyone’s age. You'll see that change reflected here. That makes Renji 275 and Byakuya 250. I think that deals with a lot of the issues. 
> 
> I know this was a somewhat unpopular decision, but my reasoning has to do with my ideas about how aging works in the Rukongai for me, in my version of our shared universe, in my opinion. 
> 
> **A note on “birthdays.”** I suspect that Kubo-sensei likely just included birthdays as one of those things you do, like blood type, but I have, from the very start, been absolutely gob smacked by the idea that the dead have birthdays. Are they a real birthday remembered beyond crossing over? And if each soul lives several lifetimes, which birthday do they remember, the most recent or is there some kind of soul birth day? Or are they a death day, a remembrance of the last day alive in the Human World? Or are they something like this, manufactured arrival dates handed out by the Soul Society? 
> 
> Obviously, I don’t know and have made this my answer because ‘how it all works’ is one of my favorite brainteasers about the Soul Society and Bleach. Also, Josey reminded me that Matsumoto canonically doesn’t remember her birthday. I have an answer for why that is, but I’m going to hold off on bringing it into this fic until we see if Kubo-sensei ever answers what the mysterious ‘thing’ Aizen stole from Matsumoto. But, regardless, it would work neatly both with that mystery and what I’ve set up here.


End file.
